


Salvation

by allrisenim



Category: Super Junior
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Possibly Unrequited Love, Romance, idk - Freeform, or hints of violence, sad broken eunhae, yesung is a doctor which reminds me i need to finish my uni apps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 05:17:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16190867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allrisenim/pseuds/allrisenim
Summary: Hyukjae forgets how to breathe. Yesung becomes his lungs.





	Salvation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jaeopardy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaeopardy/gifts).



> yehyuk has a soft spot in my heart;; this is for miss mila who encouraged me to post here and gave me the wine prompt... in the fair words of Ms Swift, look what you made me do.
> 
> leave... idk how ao3 works?? comment?? swipe up and subsrcib??

Friday night is white rocked in slow undulations and even slower breaths; _in, out, in, out._

 

Hyukjae rolls over on his side; the saddened curve of his spine sings protest in a series of cracks that sounds all too sickly, and the motion is enough to rush the contents of an empty stomach into his mouth. Or perhaps it’s psychosomatic, perhaps the pain is psychosomatic too. The bruises? Poppy flowers. Donghae? An asshole of a hallucination. The name twists the corners of his mouth up, but not for long. A small cut on his bottom lip forces the scoff into sibilance through clenched teeth, and Hyukjae reels all over again. _Weak, weak, weak._

 

_Has it already been a day?_

 

Mid-winter Seoul is degrees below freezing, expiring air into the sheets that billow just above his feet and he curses yesterday’s him for forgetting to close the window. He’s much too weary now. The past day could have very well been a slovenly twenty years nestled in this bloating place. But then again, he isn’t really complaining; instead, he had grown rather fond of this inertia, of watching the world pay no mind to his affliction, dissolve evanescent sunrises into unsympathetic golden hours.

 

If this were a regular Friday… Donghae might have suggested they go down to the bar again. The glossy one on the ugly side of town. The one that gave you gin dry when you asked for tonic. The one they had met at. But god only knows how long it’s been since regular. Two infinities, maybe. And a half. They’d never really been good with numbers anyway; stopped counting after the first five months, the first three dates, the first time Donghae hurled a fist through drywall, just inches from his face. He’d been thankful then, that his uncle had taught him how to punch back all those years ago.

 

 _Weak_ , Hyukjae reminds himself, then wonders when his conscience had developed such an affinity for Donghae’s voice. On another night, he would have indulged the thought. Tonight is not one of those nights.

 

For a while he had questioned if Donghae really thought him a fool; maybe, maybe to the untrained eye, to some dewy-eyed, disbelieving lover, any excuse would have worked. And Hyukjae had tried to be that person, taught himself to believe Donghae was just a bad liar, swapped sutures for sugar, sensibility for dainty placebos. But the truth was that the latter simply did not care, and as Hyukjae had come to learn, the lies hurt less than the bluntness with which they were issued.

 

Hell burns through four failing walls, a patchy, moonlit floor, an upholstered couch, and back; churns glassware into smithereens and wooden shelves into bare splinters. It had been a turbulent last few days, but now it was clear, at the very least, that their romance had come to its very own unceremonious cessation. Donghae had ripped the heart out of any half-promise they could have made over an ephemeral past few months—to “be better”, to “be honest”—or anything spun from that flimsy fucking sentiment—attached to him the same deathless apathy Hyukjae had caught him cheating with. Then again, to some extent he had only himself to blame. A poorly promise with Donghae was as nugatory as a band-aid tacked to a festering sore.

 

The tear is wiped away as quickly as it falls, and Hyukjae lets his attention wander to other things: a passing shadow, expanding across the ceiling, then shrinking between his thumb and index. Three more shadows, meandering through the empty room, before white halts at the red of a traffic light. Games, they liked games. This one’s his favourite: _Where were you last night._

 

Hyukjae shuts his eyes, wringing out the memory. The swell under his waterline is service to the ache— _does it ever go away?_ The pressure pulls crescents into his skin, mirroring the creases in the sheets as his fingers curl into them. Salt comes in currents, streaking sideways and sloppy across a blemished cheek.

 

_Three days._

 

_I’ll give you three days to get the fuck out._

 

Perhaps Donghae had made an effort to count after all. Hyukjae whimpers, and far too audible for his liking; he wills himself to keep rhythm, and his pained aspirations eddy into steady breaths again.

 

The torrent of texts are all from Donghae, each more abrasive than the last. Hyukjae reaches for the phone on his bedside table as it _dings_ ; somehow finding the capacity to laugh at how this benign sound had become Donghae’s sick idea of a perfunctory warning. He skims through the notifications, mustering whatever modicum of courage he has inwardly still, though the cunctations in his breathing are testimony to the fear.

 

He does care to read, however, when it isn’t Donghae.

 

**[You want me to come over with drinks so we can bitch about him again?]**

 

The timestamp on the message shows he's five days late.

 

_Yesung…_

 

Hyukjae shifts his weight onto his back, cycling heavy expirations into the vacuity. The knot in his chest slackens; fresh tears finish pendulant on his lower lashes, and not before relief prods his lips into a smile.

 

**[Yes, please]**

 

.

.

.

 

“Hey dude, see you tomorrow! Good work today.”

 

“Same to you, Donghee.”

 

“Yesongsong.”

 

Yesung groans, the pads of his fingers kneading at the stiff sinews of his shoulder, nursing the strain that had started down the side of his neck. He was meant to finish two hours ago, but between mix-ups at the lab and negligent colleagues he had ended up overstaying, again. Exhaustion is a perpetual state of mind here, and bankrupted of rest, and workless weekend mornings, the only thing that sustains him is the promise of sleep. But now, even sleep would have to wait.

 

_Hyukjae…_

 

Yesung quickly changes out of his scrubs, then takes the shortcut out, old soles chafing against the the blue-grey flooring, until vinyl wanes into gravel and the smell of disinfectant peters out. Tugging his coat more securely over his body, Yesung makes out into the city. Steam drifts from his lips and against a ruddy cheek, glissading further into a soulless night. Seoul’s temperatures had dropped steadily over the past few days.

 

“...ae hates the cold,” he mutters under his breath, only then realising he had been muttering to himself all along.

 

He feels his legs almost yielding to the numbness in his feet, but pushes through regardless, unsparing in effort, lets the body take over from where his mind had abdicated. Eventually he spots the CU Mart nearest to the hospital, fluorescent abut a blackened sky, decanting neon in slow strokes. He hauls his aching limbs into the store, decoratory ding bells oscillating wildly behind him as he hobbles in.

 

Two knocks deliver salvation at the price of one bottle of red wine, clutched firmly in his right hand.

 

No response.

 

Yesung sighs, brushing the errant hairs away from his eyes, then nudges at the doormat with the curious bottom of his sneaker. The key under is really just a formality—Hyukjae had made him a copy months ago—nevertheless, the sheer thoughtfulness is enough to job his heart into a small gallop.

 

The door clicks open into a field of shadows, punctured by nothing but the faint illuminations of adjacent, sparsely occupied office buildings. The room is about as stagnant as the awful flood of silence that greets him, as he takes his hesitant first step into the apartment. The amalgamation of those two factors suggest horror, and Yesung shakes off the chills that had begun in rivulets under the skin of his arms.

 

“Hyukjae?”

 

He finds all too soon, equanimity a slipping device, his breathing turns laborious at the possibilities and— _no,_ Hyukjae only ever invites him over when Donghae is not around, Yesung thinks. But then again, he had come a tardy guest.

 

Turning heels, he feels suddenly an ounce of pain on the tip of his toe, then suffusing down, but with building intensity. Yesung hisses, gathering his injured foot in his hands to check under for what he is sure has to be a shard of glass. The bottom of his sock shows a ruby-hued discolouration, fissuring crimson into the wool as it tumefies. He exhales, the pain acutely neutralised by his days’ worth of lassitude, then expertly tweezes the fracture of glass from his skin. But the light from his phone picks up something else, and all around him; broken wine glass stems, ripped cushions, decor torn from their original positions and strewn, awry, on the marble. Yesung’s heart vaults into his stomach, panic rising in him like a flux.

 

_Oh god._

 

_Oh god, no._

 

Rationality becomes a secondary adjudicator at this point, but somewhere, he remembers to breathe into the deluge. He makes speed towards Hyukjae’s bedroom, slamming the door open with an odious disregard for subtlety.

 

A voice, soft, and broken, greets him finally.

 

“—sung?”

 

“Hyukjae—what the h—are you okay?”

 

Yesung drops to his knees by his bed, the wine bottle forgotten in the cavity between their bodies. “Are you okay,” Yesung tries again, the question solvating into a whisper this time.

 

“I am now, idiot.”

 

“What happened.”

 

“Did you come from work?”

 

“That’s not important.”

 

“It is to me.”

 

Uncertain digits find their natural place around his wrist, arresting it so the flat of his palm comes to rest on Hyukjae’s pillow. The younger man nods, slowly, ushering in the assurance Yesung realises is needed by them both. A warm trickle of breath comes flush against his chilled hand, and the latter stirs, inly wanting, though his conscience warns him to be selfish.

 

“Look.” Hyukjae urges, gesturing with his chin to where a shadow had begun to balloon, maundering down his bedroom wall, the one with a hollow in it, shaped just like man’s fist. The room purls into amber as Yesung turns to look at the restless body once more.

 

“Where is he?” He presses, changing the subject.

 

“I don’t know,” Hyukjae fakes a yawn. “Said he’ll be back in three days, said he wants the place back by then.”

 

“What do you mean by ‘he wants the place back’?” Yesung pauses to think. “You mean he wants you out.”

 

“It was his apartment to begin with.”

 

“But that means…”

 

_That means ‘we broke up’_

 

Hyukjae doesn’t see the necessity in telling him, but Yesung knows his incousiance is a filmy act to brush away excessive concern—concern Yesung thinks can never be too inordinate when it comes to Hyukjae.

 

Said man doesn’t answer; his gaze dries stony and Yesung can tell the mere reminder is making him miserable.

 

“How do you feel.”

 

“Awful.” The laugh that follows is dry and sardonic. Then the words Yesung hates as much as the other. “I miss him. It sounds stupid right.”

 

“It’s all over now, jae, you can _breathe…_ and… he… _god_ —he was _horrible_ to you.”

 

“As we were to each other,” Hyukjae murmurs, abashed.

 

Passing shadows begin their citrine waltz as Hyukjae pulls closer to the other man, effacing the lines Yesung had thought to be too intimate to cross. Yesung sees now the brutish stain on the side of his face where a small sliver of light, cracked through his bedroom window, had fallen with affection. The flutter in his chest is a small measure of the perturbation pulsing wildly inside him; dazzling and angry. He shrinks from the other, partially in shame.

 

“Well I’m happy for you, you know, even if you don’t realise it now, I’m—”

 

“You’re happy for me,” Hyukjae deadpans, “Okay.”

 

“Of course I’m happy, it physically _hurt_ for me to see you play house with that absolute… garbage human. I mean, just look around you jae! There isn't even a house!—”

 

“Don't,” Hyukjae snaps. “Don't fucking raise your voice at me.”

 

The words had too easily tumbled off an unchecked tongue. It’s misdirected frustration.

 

The room runs down to a despondent white.

 

“I’m sorry,” Hyukjae continues, “It’s just been difficult for me. And I’m so tired. So, so inexplicably tired of all this shouting, and arguing, and…”

 

Hyukjae softens. “And you know.”

 

“I know.”

 

Yesung fiddles with the small bottle of wine that had become forgotten between them, turning it over onto his base.

 

“It was really bad this time. The fight, I mean.”

 

Yesung looks up at the other.

 

“The living room…”

 

“I lost my cool, yeah… you wanna hear about everything?” Hyukjae laughs, but Yesung doesn’t miss the tears threatening to abscond with the slightest fraction of an already faltering dignity.

 

Pride is the abysmal, loud-mouthed arbiter for the words that stagger out, barely acquiscent to the sentiments of his heart. This is no occasion for humour, but the truth is that Hyukjae hates looking fallible, especially in front of his best friend. He only hopes Yesung is clever enough to know that too.

 

“You… still have wine glasses?”

 

“No,” Hyukjae rises from where he was prostrated. His sweatpants drop to the nooks in his hips, and the back of Yesung’s mind recognises them as _Donghae’s._

 

The younger pries the bottle from Yesung’s hands.

 

“I guess plastic cups will have to suffice?”

 

.

.

.

 

Salvation is the hand that helps him reassert tenancy amidst the desolation, turn yesterday’s sorrows into dustpan grime.

 

Hyukjae sits in the centre of his world, cheeks aflame, downing his third cup of the night with ease. Time moves languidly with alcohol in the system, prolonging paradise; Yesung’s gaze drifts idly from a tidied-up living room, to the band-aid now plastered on his foot, to a rubescent Hyukjae.

 

“This wine,” Hyukjae giggles, “is _bad_.”

 

Yesung tips his cup sheepishly towards the younger.

 

“I’m sorry I’m not a millionaire thirty-seven year old banker who lives smack in the middle of Gangnam—”

 

“—that’s oddly specific, Yesung sir—”

 

“— _sweetheart_ , if I could afford the time and money to go to an actual store, I would. I want the best for you, always. I’m not Donghae.”

 

“Lucky you.”

 

“Lucky me,” Yesung echoes, taking an experimental sip. “Ugh this _is_ bad.”

 

Hyukjae laughs profusely, glowing as would a sun in this desecrated place. Nobody talks about the smear of indigo under his right eye, but somehow it doesn’t quite matter. Yesung settles his own cup on the coffee table; Hyukjae really is more the drinker between both of them, but dishonesty is a convenient currency for company sometimes.

 

“It’s day one,” Hyukjae continues, his speech punctuated with chortles. “I still have two more days to pack, it’s all good.”

 

“Three days is pretty generous.”

 

“You think?”

 

“For him I mean.”

 

“You’re right, he’s soooo thoughtful.”

 

For a while, Hyukjae returns to his bouncing self, catches Yesung off-guard, and the latter finds suddenly a supple chin rested on his shoulder. An uncurbed hand almost rises to caress a red-ringed cheek, but Hyukjae pushes the older’s cheek away playfully, until that of his is pink and smarting as well.

 

“He used to be kind, you know,” Hyukjae sighs. “The first date—the first _real_ one, remember, he booked this private room in _Azora_ … and half-way through the third course, I look up, and there are—”

 

“—fireworks—”

 

“Yeah,” Hyukjae pants, rubbing a polished cheek in remembrance, “And he paid for those, he did. H-he tried so, _so_ hard at the start. The first months were absolutely amazing, remember? I used to call you every single day, telling you about how much I thought he was _the one_ —I guess he liked the chase. But I stopped running. I… got boring.”

 

Hyukjae’s eyes droop, face decolourised and bespeaking his absolute disappointment. The compulsion to cushion that sad face in his hands and yet—to stifle—Yesung is torn; his heart, an engorged organ in his chest, swelling with indignance and starving, begging, pleading to let him speak through it.

 

“Hyukjae! H-he cheated—multiple times! There’s no excuse for that, remember?”

 

“So did I—”

 

“Jae, you were drunk! You—”

 

A finger is pressed to his lips almost immediately, silencing the older man.

 

“I don’t like the blame game. I just… _thank you_ … for being here.”

 

The anger ripples into acridity, and Yesung stomachs the burn. He loathes how those two meagre syllables are comfort enough for him.

 

“I’ve told you this before, but Jongjin is moving out for university in a week. You can come and stay—I mean… it’s no Gangnam-gu—”

 

“It’s perfect.” Hyukjae yawns, and Yesung is privy to the smile that stretches, cheek to luminous cheek, for him. “You should get some rest. You must be really tired too.”

 

Hyukjae’s eyes wander to where the wine had grown stale in Yesung’s brimming cup.

 

“And you hardly drank.”

 

“I have a morning shift tomorrow, Jae.”

 

“But it’s Saturday tomorrow.”

 

“No sleep for the wicked?” Yesung grins.

 

“Then I cast a million sleepless nights on Donghae!” The younger exclaims, boyishly, throwing his feet in the air.

 

“Okay, enough,” Yesung shakes his head, somewhat glad that their night had ended on a pleasant note, “Let’s put you to bed.”

 

The older unbends himself but Hyukjae cops the fleeing man by the arm.

 

“Stay.” He persuades, looking up through his eyelashes, “Can’t you call in sick?”

 

Yesung brushes off the stubborn hand, but Hyukjae’s touch lingers, something like a fever, blistering as it draws heat up to his face.

 

“I-I mean I could,” The older sighs, repressing the urge, “But my patient is leaving the ward for surgery, a-and a couple of year threes are shadowing me tomorro—”

“Suit yourself,” Hyukjae frowns, turning away mid-sentence, but roguishly, “I know you hate me.”

 

Yesung's eyes follow the body that slips from him; how elusive, how utterly unattainable…

 

“I could never.”

 

.

.

.

 

Friday night is white rocked in slow undulations and even slower breaths; _in, out, in, out._

 

It isn’t long before Hyukjae grows dull, sinking into that eddying pool of sheets, combed through with a winter’s wind. Yesung closes the window, finally, and the tide stills into placid waters. The latter watches him fondly, and for the unerring rise and fall in his chest, he is glad.

 

“I love you,” Yesung admits, bitterly, “I guess I always have, from when we were just dumb kids in high school. And it’s stupid, I know. I’ve watched you suffer through three terrible breakups and I wonder sometimes, why you choose the love you choose.”

 

Hyukjae looks too small for his bed almost, something like a small buoy in an open body of milk. Yesung purses his lips, turning off the bedlight.

 

“Goodnight,” He whispers, feeling incredibly silly somehow, “ I’ll come around to help you move tomorrow. Think about me, ha… when you dream, I guess, I mean, yeah… I love you… I love you. I really do.”

 

He admires the boy now; a glistening underlip, these lovely limbs, the purple that blossoms on a glittering cheek. Yesung leans in, glassy-eyed and blushing, taping a gentle kiss onto his forehead, then immediately retracting, feeling sorry for the younger, and even more so for himself.

 

.

.

.

 

There is a smiling pause, between when he hears the main door click for the last time that night, and when the flitter in his breasts surges into a chorus of little laughs. Hyukjae turns over on his side and switches on the bedlight.

 

“Idiot.”

 


End file.
